This is my third pregnancy, and while there are similarities with the first two, there are new and exciting twists of embarrassing behavior. When I was carrying Briar I was plagued with an aversion to red meat, which meant that if Sean made it for himself I would literally gag at the sight of it. I think something about the hormones translated what was actually on his plate to some sort of obscene image of slaughtered woodland creatures. It was bad telenovela type dramatics on my part and the memory turns me six shades of red, especially as I remember that Sean said nothing, as I doused everything I ate, from rice to cottage cheese, with green Tabasco sauce, Chinese mustard and banana peppers.
My pregnancy with Avery was fine as far as red meat went, but my oh my, the midafternoon nausea was such that I could smell certain coworkers before their cars turned into the parking lot. I struggled with workplace conversations as the scent of people’s scalps seemed to take on an almost tangible quality and hit me with the force of a mack truck. Again and again.
And now we have this pregnancy, and a new tick and an old one that has simply grown more pronounced that in the previous two pregnancies. I have a debilitating intolerance for dog hair. It is everywhere and even our mighty Dyson vacuum, for which I am impossibly grateful, can not touch it. It coats every surface, dancing across the hardwoods upstairs, mocking me with its invincibility to mop, vacuum and Lysol wipes. Downstairs it covers the carpet like downy duck feathers, so total is its coverage that at first galnce it seems to be the carpet. Then I lift and it comes up like peeling skin on a three day old sunburn. Long, black hairs catch on sippy cups, they cement themselves to apples and bananas. Runny noses are compounded by hairs clinging inside tiny red nostrils. Plates, coutners and table tops bare the damned black whiskers like ancient bugs in amber. I am maddened by it, consumed in both waking and sleeping hours with a futility that harkens images of Bill Murray in Caddyshack. I hate it and I hate myself for it, but I cannot shake it, literally or figuratively.
And the thing that is stronger than ever before? My inability, or unwillingness depending upon who you talk to, to censor myself. It simply feels as if there is no reason not to call things for what they are. You can imagine the things that come out of my mouth as I slice tomatoes and dog fur flutters down from parts unknown, and coats the bright red flesh with coarse lab hair. It ain’t pretty.
Anyone got any pearls for me?
I would like to say something comforting and profound but, truthfully, the dog hair would drive me quietly insane.
Oh I wish I could help. I fear the only thing you can do is birth that baby!
Good luck with this, truly. 🙂
It's afternoon and still no comments. Maybe it's because everyone else is wise enough to know there really isn't anything that helps, mid-hormone, mid-pregnancy. It simply is what it is.
I still find you irresistable, dog fur fear or not, and hope you are feeling well and enjoying your weekend.
Listen, I am not pregnant and dog hair makes me what to throw chairs through windows… shave the dog. 😉
Oh how I could… and should write my own post on this topic. Pregnancy #2 has come with a whole set of new aversions. Meat is a huge problem for me. Dirt on my hard wood floors is driving me insane. I could go on and on. God bless my wonderful partner Russ for pretending to understand. The other day I told him our unmade bed was causing nausea!
Well, I have nothing to say about the dog hair thing. But I would like to say that I think you're an amazing writer. This is a great blog.
At a certain point in my pregnancy, I found the lack of censoring – and the absolute lack of desire to be the good girl SO EMPOWERING (all caps only barely conveys my superwoman feeling) – I took advantage of the apparent set of brass ones that came with my pregnancy and took care of some long unattended business.
Clearly that was my second trimester – my first I was too busy sleeping, and my third I was too busy complaining of sciatica
i would lose my damn mind i can't handle pet hair!!!!!
which song played when you turned it on???? seems like every time my friend at work opens it the nickel back song comes on and blares out I LIKE YOUR PANTS AROUND YOUR FEET…ha ha i laugh at her each time
Not a one sweetie. Maybe the act of carrying around a lint brush would help (also, it could be used as a weapon in time of need).
As for the censoring? Don't. Don't censor. Use it to your advantage.
It might be time for a Kirby.
I know, I know… I never would have thought anything could be better than my Dyson until those d*mn salespeople came to my house and showed me what a poor job it was doing.
Of course, I waited until they were gone and quickly found a very slightly used on on Craigslist.
Anyway, hang in there, mama. 🙂
Hair of any kind, ew. And we have two cats. It freaks me out to see a hair on Fly's body or clothes or toys.
Wish I could be more helpful!